This Living Hand, Now Warm and Capable
by Isola
Summary: Hermione and Lucius and the aftermath of battle. AU.


One shot.

The characters belong to JK Rowling.

Please note that English is not my first language, and I have no beta, so excuse any spelling and/or grammatical mistakes. They're entirely the fault of my old English teacher…

And, please share your thoughts on this – I would love to know what you think.

"**This Living Hand, Now Warm and Capable" or the Aftermath of Battle.**

The aftermath of battle ought to be shrouded in smoke and drenched in rain. There ought to be circling ravens and thunderclouds and impenetrable darkness.

But she sees an azure sky through the branches above her. She hears songbirds trilling nearby.

It bothers her.

Then again, there are a lot of things bothering her at the moment.

It bothers her that despite the dappled sunlight on her face, she is so very, very cold. It bothers her that she cannot move at all. It bothers her that she can feel her life seeping into the moss beneath her. It bothers her that despite her sharp mind and despite the magic and power at all of their disposal, what would eventually bring her down was a well-aimed dagger to the gut.

And it bothers her that despite all the fairy tales and logic and evidence to the contrary, Dark did in the end conquer Light.

This is not how it was meant to be.

She can remember very little of the actual battle, but knows without a question of a doubt that they lost. She recalls flashes only: friends dying, blood and shit and howls. Despair. She recalls fragments of lives bathed in green, shattered like so much glass.

It is all lost, and in the end, in the grand scheme of things, her one betrayal is small and insignificant. It no longer matters. Perhaps it never did.

Now, footsteps approaching in the quiet. Slowly, carefully, but with intent. Seeking. She cannot move her head to see, but at this very moment everything is remarkably clear. She can taste dew and copper and earth. She hears grass growing, trees whispering. She feels excruciating pain and a gentle breeze in her hair. She smells wild thyme and filth.

A voice then, from somewhere behind her. Near. Soft, almost a whisper.

"It is you."

Ah. It is him.

He crouches beside her. His long hair of moonshine is matted with blood, but in his eyes she sees the dark thunderclouds she longed for earlier. Mercurial. Hard. His mouth is curved into a sneer, but whether from habit or contempt she cannot tell.

She feels calm then.

"I am about to die," she tells him. As she speaks she can feel blood in her mouth, can hear wetness in her voice. Perhaps the dagger also pierced her lung. It does not matter now.

"Yes," he says, "you are."

"I am not afraid." For some reason it is important to tell him this, it is important that her sworn enemy should know that she is facing her end bravely.

A slight twitch to his mouth, but his eyes inscrutable as always. She never could read them.

"I know you are not."

"Will you stay with me? It won't be long."

He studies her face for some time before speaking. "Yes. Yes, I believe I will."

He stands back up long enough to remove his torn, blood spattered robe, and then drapes it over her body. It makes no difference to her. She is still cold. She will be cold forever, or for a short while. Or both. Gracefully he sits down on the moss beside her and, with a gloved hand, brushes heavy curls away from her forehead.

A small part of her finds it amusing that a proud, haughty man such as he should be sitting on the naked ground. The rest of her notes that she can no longer feel her legs.

"Thank you."

He does not answer, but inclines his head. There is an ugly scratch marring his face, running from his temple to his jaw, and she thinks that it will leave a scar. Aside from that, and his filthy hair, he is beautiful. Beautiful and cruel.

She is aware that her thoughts are wandering, but she feels that just this once she may be excused. The numbness has crept up her legs and into her stomach. Soon it will reach her chest. At least she is no longer in pain.

"Tell me something…"

At the sound of her voice, he turns faraway eyes back to meet hers. He raises an eyebrow.

"If… if I could be saved, would you do it?"

"You are quite beyond saving, my dear." He looks away again.

"Yes… But if, if there was a chance?"

"No. I would not." His voice is as final as his words, and cold. Almost as cold as she is feeling.

"I suppose that is as it should be," she breathes. She does not feel sad at his answer, nor does he seem to regret it.

"I suppose so."

"Will you tell me a story? Your voice is very beautiful, it sounds like snowfall."

This surprises a short, sharp laugh from him. "I know no stories," he says.

"You must have told some to your son, back when he was little?"

"No. Never."

She supposes that she is not that surprised. And that crushing numbness has now reached her chest, her arms. Shadows slither across her vision; she sees him as if at the end of a tunnel. For the first time she is scared. She needs to see him clearly.

"In that case," she whispers, "in the pocket of my robe… Right side."

He frowns at her, but reaches into her robes with gentle hands. He pulls out a tattered old book, a volume she has carried with her since her early teens, a keepsake from a different life.

He holds the book awkwardly in his hand. Some distant part of her is amused by his discomfort.

"Will you hold my hand?"

She sees anger in his face then, and resignation. She fancies she can also see a tinge of sadness, but she cannot be sure. Perhaps that is a vain notion, a spurious hope. Whatever it is that he is feeling, he still takes her hand in his, but he does not remove his glove. He never does. He has never once touched her with his bare hands, and right now that fills her with such emptiness and longing. And anger. She coughs wetly and can feel blood in her mouth again. He finds a handkerchief and wipes her lips.

"Thank you."

"You are welcome."

She looks to the book in his hand. "Page 167. Read for me then."

Without letting go of her hand, he flips the book open and finds the page she asked for. He starts reading, his voice clear and strong and glacial. She has always loved his voice.

"This living hand, now warm and capable  
>Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold<br>And in the icy silence of the tomb,  
>So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights<br>That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood  
>So in my veins red life might stream again,<br>And thou be conscience-calm'd–see here it is–  
>I hold it towards you."<p>

He finishes and looks down at her. "I…."

She wants to put her fingers to his lips, but cannot move at all. There is more darkness than light now, shadows are encroaching oh so swiftly, and she desperately clings to the sight of his face. She has always loved his face. She has always hated his face.

She sighs, and he leans close to her. She can see his grey eyes, near, so very near, and she is glad. She thinks that perhaps now, in this one moment, he views his own betrayal with less contempt and self-disgust than he once did. She hopes so.

"I would, you know." she whispers wetly. Tries to tell him. "That… for you, I would."

The incomprehension and rage and despair in his eyes are the very last things she sees.

End

The poem is by Keats.


End file.
